An Epilogue (or, Second Time's the Charm)
by Miss Maudlin
Summary: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage. Abbie and Ichabod expand their family, although Abbie still has to tell him as much. AU-ish.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Abbie shaded her eyes against the bright afternoon sun, looking off into the distance. It was already 1:00. Jenny said she'd be there by 12:45, although Abbie should know by now that any time given by Jenny had a 30-minute window before and after. She'd arrive. Eventually.

"Your aunt is never on time, is she?" she said to the toddler sitting at her feet. He wasn't paying attention to his mom; rather, he was engrossed in burying an action figure in the sand before digging it up again and then squealing loudly when he found it. He did this over and over as Abbie watched, smiling. August Mills-Crane was already absurdly tall for 18 months, and Abbie suspected he'd be as tall as her by the time he reached elementary school. He had shiny black curls and light brown skin, but had inherited his father's light bluish-gray eyes. And his father's tendency toward melodrama, but she'd never tell Ichabod that.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," Jenny called as she walked toward the pair. "Got tied up at work."

Abbie just raised a brow. "You're working on a Saturday? Is it legal?"

"Haha, very funny." Jenny bent down and scooped up her nephew, bending him backwards as she gave him a raspberry on his tummy. He squealed and laughed at the same time, the sound both piercing and hilarious. "I had to go in this morning but the time got away from me." Jenny said this as she flipped her giggling nephew over her shoulder, his body halfway down her back as he babbled "down down down." His little legs kicked and almost hit Jenny in the face, but she just laughed.

Abbie got up and reached for August, placing him in her lap as she sat back down in the sandbox. Grabbing his bucket and shovel so he wouldn't scramble away, she said, "You'll give him brain damage letting him hang upside down like that."

"He's part-Crane. He already has brain damage."

Abbie threw the plastic shovel at her sister. "Shut up."

Jenny just smirked as she plopped down into the sand and began helping August dig holes—plastic shovel now in hand—and zoom his racecars across the sand. He clapped his hands at Jenny's sound effects, mimicking his aunt's _zooms_ and _vrooms_.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in forever. What's up?" Abbie asked. She knew her sister was currently on the off-phase of her relationship with Irving, a relationship that had been a constant source of both stress and elation to her sister for the past four years. They had a cycle: great until Irving brought up some sort of commitment, then Jenny shut down. And when Jenny shut down, Irving left. But they always ended up together, and the cycle eventually began again.

Jenny shrugged. "Not much."

Abbie sighed inwardly, knowing she would have to drag the truth from her sister. Their relationship had improved, but Jenny still didn't trust Abbie all of the time. Abbie didn't think Jenny trusted anyone fully, and hadn't the day Abbie had lied about the trees in the woods.

"How's Frank?" Abbie ventured. She knew very well how her boss had been acting at the precinct: pricklier than usual, his orders sharp and his sense of humor blunted. This always meant Jenny trouble.

August laughed as Jenny raced the cars up his legs. "No idea. I haven't talked to him in a month."

"Jenny—"

Jenny held up a hand. "You didn't ask me here to talk about my relationship issues," she replied sharply. In a softer tone, she added, "And I don't want to talk about it."

When Ichabod and Abbie had married, Abbie had let Jenny have her apartment, where Jenny continued to live. She had continually refused to move in with Irving, despite his asking her multiple times. Abbie had realized that her sister craved the safety of a relationship but despised the constraints just as much. Even after everything they—all four of them—had gone through, Jenny remained aloof, although she had taken to August the moment he'd been born.

"I just want you to be happy," Abbie said. "You know that, right?"

Jenny raised her brows. "Like you and Ichy? First comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage," she sing-songed. At the dark look on her sister's face, Jenny returned to playing with August, who had fallen quiet. This usually meant it was time for a nap—when he stopped talking, squealing, crying or laughing. Rather like his father, Abbie thought.

Abbie ruffled August's curls and kissed his cheek. "He's about to fall asleep," she said softly to no one in particular. She looked back to Jenny and said, "But I did want to talk to you about something."

Jenny glanced up at her sister. "What, that you're pregnant again?"

Abbie gaped. "How—"

"It's pretty obvious: one, your bottle of water looks like it's filled with ginger ale or something, and I know you only drink it when you feel like you're going to puke. Two, you're wearing sweat pants and you never wear sweat pants in public. And three, you look like you're about to fall asleep right now. And I bet if I played you that Sarah McLachlan animal commercial on my phone you'd start sobbing."

"I'd start crying even if I weren't pregnant. And I saw you wipe your eyes one time when it came on." That had been an awkward afternoon: Abbie, pregnant with August, sobbing at the stupid commercial because she couldn't find the remote to change the channel (too upset to remember the TV itself had buttons to change channels), and Ichabod running in, terrified that his wife was hurt, and Jenny laughing the entire time (although Abbie suspected she was crying, too).

Jenny waved a hand. "Whatever. The real question is: when are you going to tell Ichy?"

August had fallen onto his side, his head pillowed on Abbie's leg, now fast asleep. The kid could fall asleep anywhere, any time. "Don't call him Ichy. And tonight, I guess. I've been putting it off because he got so weird with August."

When Abbie had told Ichabod she was pregnant, he'd been excited but mostly terrified. He'd tried to hide the terror, but it didn't help that he was obsessed with reading and looking up everything online, discovering every possible thing that could go wrong, every symptom that could be something dire. He'd stayed up late one night reading _What to Expect When You're Expecting_ and had barged into their bedroom at 2 AM, making sure Abbie's ankles weren't swollen and that she didn't have a headache because if so they needed to go to the hospital right now—

Abbie had kicked him out of the house for that stunt.

Her pregnancy had been easy, really. Just usual things like first trimester morning sickness, some extra crying (or crying in general, as Abbie rarely cried), and an obsession with donut holes. She'd been more concerned about her stupid husband than for herself.

"Well, it better be a girl this time," Jenny said. "I need a niece to corrupt."

"It'll be the last one, so you better pray extra hard." Abbie scooped up August and stood. "I should take him home. You'll come to dinner sometime at the cabin, right? You're a pain in the ass, but we like having you around."

Jenny kissed August on his forehead. "Sure, yeah, just text me." She turned to leave, but added, "Oh, and congrats. You're a great mom." And before Abbie could respond, Jenny walked away, her hands in her pockets, her long, curly hair blowing in the breeze.

Abbie just shook her head. "Well, I guess we better prepare for tonight, huh?" she said to her sleeping son.

He just snuggled into her neck and sighed in response.

* * *

I don't know what this is. I blame Tumblr and all the posts about Ichabbie babies. IT'S ALL Y'ALL'S FAULT.

I've always heard What to Expect When You're Expecting is a terrifying book, because it's more like everything that can go wrong encyclopedia. And the symptoms Ichabod was looking for are ones for pre-eclampsia aka high blood pressure.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It all went downhill once Abbie arrived home.

August decided that he was not going to eat his dinner and instead fuss and cry and refuse to be soothed. Abbie couldn't set him down without him starting to scream, and she had a feeling why he was so unhappy: when she looked in his mouth, she saw that his lower gums were bright red. She sighed. A new tooth. August teething was like her husband without enough sleep: fractious, fussy and loud.

With August unwilling to sit in his high chair, Abbie didn't start on dinner until she put him in his crib at 6:00—still crying, but not as loudly. She could hear him hiccupping as she began to chop the vegetables, and she had the absurd desire just to sit and cry like her son had been doing all afternoon. But she had wanted to make lasagna with salad and bread for Ichabod tonight before she told him about the pregnancy, and by God, nothing was going to stop her.

"I'm going to get this fucking lasagna made if it's the last thing I do…" Abbie muttered to herself as she chopped the onion and stirred the noodles in the pot of boiling water. As she sliced the last bit of onion, her hand slipped and she sliced her index finger; blood welled and ran down her hand, onto the cutting board and the vegetables.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck!" Abbie turned on the faucet at the sink and drenched her finger in the cold water, hissing at the sting. She then pressed a towel to her finger, holding it tightly, counting down the seconds. But the bleeding wouldn't stop—it wouldn't need stitches, but deep enough to be obnoxious. Swearing under her breath, she went to the bathroom, wrapped her finger in a combination of toilet paper and band-aids, and then returned to the kitchen. She threw out the bloodied vegetables and cleaned off the cutting board as best she could with a bandaged finger. "I just want to make some goddamn lasagna, for the love of Christ. You try to do something nice and this shit happens," she said to herself. She was glad Ichabod wasn't around to hear her swear—he'd just raise one of his stupid eyebrows in mock disapproval.

Abbie had been so focused on her cut finger that she didn't realize the timer had gone off for the noodles long ago, and when she dumped them into the colander, they were mushy and overcooked. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Abbie warded off tears. She never cried, but pregnancy loved to make her hormonal and weepy. "I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry, I'm not going to cry," she chanted, taking deep breaths, in and out.

She threw out the ruined noodles, boiled new ones, and began cooking the meat. Of course, now it was close to 6:45, and Ichabod would be home within the hour. He taught American history courses at the local college; his specialty being, of course, the Revolutionary War. Abbie liked to go through his textbooks, point out the name of a famous person, and ask if he'd known him or her. And because this was Ichabod, he usually had.

Abbie placed the lasagna in the oven around 7:00, and began to work on the salad. It was slow going with her bandaged finger, and it was 7:30 by the time she had managed to cut all of the vegetables. It was also then that she heard the front door creak open and the footfalls of her husband arriving home. She heard him place his book bag in the closet before he entered the kitchen. "You're cooking?" he asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Abbie glared over her shoulder. "Yes, what does it look like?" She knew her own voice dripped with her irritability, but her patience had run dry over an hour ago. "Go sit down so I can finish this."

Turning back to the salad, she heard Ichabod turn but then walk up behind her. "What happened to your finger?" He took her left hand in his, eyeing the ridiculous toilet paper band-aid combination Abbie had slapped on it. "My God, Abbie, are you all right?"

Abbie glanced up and saw that blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage. "Fuck," she hissed before walking to the bathroom, Ichabod following her. "I cut my finger chopping onions," she explained as she threw the bloodied bandage in the trash. Her finger instantly welled blood, and Abbie wrapped it in more toilet paper, her movements erratic with frustration.

"Here, let me—"

Abbie jerked her hand from Ichabod's. "No, I'm fine, just go sit down, okay?" Her voice had tightened, and she felt herself on the verge of tears. Her husband's concern wasn't helping. "I'm. Fine. Go."

Ichabod stood a moment, watching her, an eyebrow slightly raised. Then he nodded and left, but his eyes told her he'd figure out was wrong sooner or later.

* * *

Ichabod enjoyed his students—the absurdly young freshmen, the "adult" students, even the disenchanted grad students—but today had been difficult, talking with his superiors—on a Saturday, no less—about a student who continued to plagiarize every assignment. And thanks to college policy, Ichabod could only fail the student on the plagiarized assignments and report him to the dean each time, something that chafed his sense of honor each time, since those reports resulted in little action against said student. When Ichabod had taught at Oxford, plagiarism had resulted in instant expulsion. Not so much in 21st century America.

But now he was home, to his wife and son, and he planned to drink a glass of rum and enjoy Abbie's company. His lovely wife, his fellow Witness, the mother of his child—Abbie had brought him more joy than any man could ever expect or deserve.

He sat down on the living room couch, concerned about his wife swearing the kitchen, her finger wrapped in toilet paper. He heard her open and shut the oven. "Toilet paper? We had better bandages during the war," Ichabod thought to himself. But these thoughts totally fled his mind when he heard the unmistakable sound of glass hitting the floor, and glass shattering, and then crying. Great, heaving, keening crying.

Ichabod raced to the kitchen, only to see Abbie on her knees on the tile, attempting to sweep the shards of the wine bottle into the dustpan, sobbing as she did so. "Abbie, are you hurt—"

Abbie sat back on her heels and covered her face in her hands. And cried. "I. Broke. The. Wine!" she sobbed.

Ichabod could only stare for a beat or two, uncertain how to proceed. Abbie didn't cry: she was resilient, his wife. Absurdly brave, absurdly strong, absurdly smart, absurdly funny. But she wasn't much for tears: she'd once said that it was a waste of time. That wasn't to say she wasn't prone to emotion—she just didn't usually cry when she was upset. This, however, was something Ichabod hadn't seen since…

"Ah," he said simply, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together neatly. Leaning down to Abbie, he took her hands and led her out of the kitchen, making her sit in a chair. He rubbed her right hand, making shushing noises as she continued to cry. "Abbie, my love, don't cry. I cannot imagine that bottle of wine was more than $10, although I'm certain the sales tax alone would make me weep."

Laughing and hiccupping, Abbie sighed and wiped her eyes, sniffing. "Oh God, I don't care about sales tax," she moaned. "Just accept it and move on."

"I will never accept the injustice of sales tax on necessary items like food and spirits."

"Shut up. And wine isn't a necessity." Abbie laid her head on his shoulder. "Although I could use a glass right now," she mumbled.

Ichabod just took her left hand and kissed her poorly bandaged finger. "We performed better bandaging in the war. Is this why you were crying?"

Laughing again, Abbie pushed up from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. "What, from my toilet paper band-aid? Don't be an asshole. A girl has to make do with what she can find."

"Why were you crying, then?"

Ichabod knew the answer, but he also knew that Abbie needed to tell him. He watched as she sighed and bit her lip—which he adored—and sighed again. "God, this was not how I was going to tell you."

He stood up and sat down in an opposite chair, silent and waiting.

"Um, well, shit. I was making dinner and everything and then I was going to tell you—"

Ichabod just smiled at her hesitation. "Yes?"

Abbie bit her lip. "That I'm pregnant. Again." When Ichabod stood up, she added, "And it is the last time because I hate feeling like this and you can't freak out like last time—"

Leaning down, his hands cupping her face, Ichabod kissed Abbie. He could feel her relax, her muscles losing their tension, as their mouths met. Pulling away, he replied, "I won't, as you say, 'freak out.' But I may, instead, be very, very happy. And perhaps, moderately cautious."

"You swear you won't wake me up in the middle of the night again and look up everything on the Internet? Because I swear to God, Crane, if you disturb my sleep just once I'm kicking your ass out—"

Abbie's words were stuttered when Ichabod lifted her up in his arms and carried her to their bedroom. "As long as you promise not to injure yourself or frighten me like that again."

Curling her hands around his neck, Abbie sighed. "Yeah, okay, fine." As they entered the bedroom, she lifted up her head. "Oh wait, the lasagna!"

Ichabod placed Abbie on bed, his gaze on hers. "Abbie, darling, I love you, but fuck the lasagna."


End file.
